April 16th. The official last day of my Peace Corps service. It’s strange to look upon your home, your community with eyes of finality, with nostalgia, to see things as if it were all about to end. Two years has come and gone in a moment and my mind is making perpetrations, automatically, as if it’s coded in me on some primordial, instinctive level. Mental lists are drafted, what to keep, what to leave, completing paperwork. It’s a little frightening, the need to control change, to not let it surprise you around a corner, and the lack of control we have on virtually everything in life. Yet my mind labors on, occupying itself in fear of some other thought.
With the sound of tearing cloth I suddenly realized that all my boxers were worn and torn. Two years of use and scrubbing with a harsh brush had worn them to thin cotton that tore with stretch of a leg. All of my boxers are deteriorating and each day I throw out another pair. Two years has passed quickly and though it seems to have passed unnoticed it’s strange to see the signs. I am exhausted and have lost the energy, but I can’t seem to pinpoint when it happen. Perhaps it was the daily wear that one day was stretched too thin and tore. Ripped to a halt.
All the furniture, kitchenware and other items are all sold. Hopefully, my laptop will be sold soon. I will leave the country with less than the little I arrived with. Light. Two bags filled with whatever clothes are no longer torn and small keep sakes. And the preparations continue.
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